


Here, There, and Everywhere

by TheIndianWinter



Series: Harmony [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3640557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIndianWinter/pseuds/TheIndianWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin finds a book, an obviously well-loved book, and he's going to find it's owner - Bilbo - even if he has to tear the city apart brick by brick to do so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here, There, and Everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the first one in [this](http://filiandkiliheirsofdurin.tumblr.com/post/113171144044/bagginshield-aus-to-consider-modern-day-au) post by the wonderful [Alaina](http://filiandkiliheirsofdurin.tumblr.com) who beta'd this for me (I highly recommend you go follow her). This work exists because of her, so thank you dear!  
> This is set in my wonderful hometown, Liverpool (UK). I told myself I wouldn't use a Beatles song in the title and I failed miserably but it's [such a beautiful song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VdCKdwxWGt4)  
> Right, I'm done prattling on, I hope you enjoy!

**_  
_**

There is something special about books, don't you think? Something so simple as words upon paper yet they have the incredible power to shape minds, bestow knowledge, create worlds, forge friendships.

A book can be a true friend, even when all else seems to have deserted you. It can form an escape, protect you from the harshness of reality. It can take you on a journey to pastures new, places you had never before imagined.

Second hand bookshops are special places for this very reason, they hold all the love people pour into those pages, the love books return unconditionally.

There is nothing quite so magical as a well-loved book.

The book Thorin held in his hand was most definitely well-loved. It was also a first edition of _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ and were he so inclined, he could probably sell it for thousands of pounds.

Yet this book was more than just cold, hard sterling, Thorin could feel it, more than a status symbol, or a rare piece in a collection. He determined to set about and find the owner, even if he had to tear Liverpool apart brick by brick to do so.

It began, as most such things were wont to do, when Thorin had not been anticipating that anything interesting should happen. He was on his way to see his sister perform at the Philharmonic Hall - she had just been moved to second violin and it would not do to miss her first concert. Especially so since Dís’ fiancé, Sam, had been a waylaid at the children’s hospital - they were a theatre nurse and they had texted Thorin about an hour and a half ago to say they were just awaiting the arrival of a car-crash victim who would require emergency surgery. He had found the book on the floor of his taxi - one he hailed, having worked late, to bear him across the city centre, sheltered from the bitter February wind.

After the concert, he accompanied Dís home to her house in the suburbs, taking her up on the offer of an extremely late dinner - some of the reheated pasta Sam had cooked the previous night - and it was only as he stood, staring in the fridge as he ruminated on what to steal for dessert that he remembered the old book nestled in the pocket of his coat.

The cream dust jacket was yellowed with age, and his finger caught the smooth edge of the Sellotape that repaired a small tear upon the back. The sun stained pages were well-thumbed and the spine did not creak as he opened it. This was a book that was returned to often.

Inside, upon the first page, was an inscription, written in an elegant, looping font, _‘To my daughter Belladonna, for your rainy-day adventures, Love Father.’_

Beneath this was another message, this time written in an odd, more angular hand, composed of entirely capital letters, _'My dearest Bilbo, as you set out on your own, remember each adventure begins with a few small steps down the garden path. And don't forget to look for the beauty in everything, my wonderful, brave boy, love Mum.'_

Thorin felt his throat close over for a moment, memories of his own mother coming to the forefront of his mind, calling him something similar as she stroked his hair to send him to sleep after a nightmare.

He ran his fingers over the page, ghosting them upon what he guessed would be the name of the current owner. Bilbo. Despite being a name he didn’t remember hearing before, it sounded oddly familiar. Still, it would most likely be difficult to find someone based on a first name alone, no matter how unusual.

But he had to find this Bilbo, he had, because this book was so obviously dear to him if it had once belonged to his mother.

Dís found him then, in the old high-backed armchair in her living room, and she glanced curiously at the book in his hands, after she had glared at the empty chocolate mousse pot left on the end table.

“What have you there?”

Passing it over to her, he explained, “Found it in my taxi. I want to try and find the owner - it’s obviously special.”

Her lips shaping the name ‘Bilbo’ soundlessly, his sister frowned down upon the first page, though it was one Thorin could not quite place, almost as if she recognised the name too.

“You could try Gandalf,” she said after a moment, “I swear that man knows frigging everybody.”

Thorin mused over this for a moment. Gandalf was a spritely older man, retired but by no means inactive. He had been in his acquaintance since his childhood, though Thorin was not entirely sure as to the specifics of when or how. He did indeed seem to know a large amount of people.

Since he lived in the large house just along from the cul-de-sac where Dís now lived with Sam, it would not be too great of a chore to visit, but come morning, as eleven o’clock at night was much too late to go around demanding answers about lost books, even by Thorin’s standards.

* * *

 

The following morning was thankfully a Saturday, and he allowed himself to sleep in. In the end, it was closer to midday by the time he knocked upon the deep blue front door. Gandalf answered, a smile beneath his bushy grey beard and that ever present curious twinkle in his eye.

“Why Thorin, good morning,” he greeted, “What brings you here?” He stepped aside, allowing the other man into the vestibule.

"A book," Thorin said, pulling it from the inside pocket of his coat.

Gandalf took it, stroking the cover almost fondly. Thorin hoped that was a good sign, though perhaps it was a book he had read in his childhood. As he opened the cover, his eyes widened in recognition. That was definitely a good sign.

"How did you come by this?" asked the older man, a suspicious edge to his tone.

"I found it, it had been dropped on the floor of my taxi yesterday."

Tapping the name, Gandalf said, "Belladonna is an old friend of mine. Her son Bilbo, Bilbo Baggins, is currently in Liverpool by my recommendation."

Thorin gave a sigh of relief, not even surprised that Gandalf did know him. Well perhaps a little - such a thing should be impossible after all.

"So you know where I could find him?"

"Yes," Gandalf nodded, "He's staying with Dori whilst he finalises the paperwork on his house."

Thorin knew Dori quite well - his brother was dating Thorin's best friend Dwalin and he had gone to university with his old friend Balin and his brother was currently dating Thorin's best friend Dwalin. The man owned a Bed and Breakfast on the seafront in Crosby, a few miles closer to the city centre.

"Thank you," Thorin said, inclining his head before he turned back to the door.

The air was cold as he stepped outside, though it had lost its bitterness. Allowing himself a small smile, he made his way to the local train station, the sun shining bright with the promise of spring.

On the way to Crosby, he wondered at what this Bilbo was like. If his mother was a friend of Gandalf's, he was perhaps only a little younger than Thorin's thirty-five. He was moving here, and alone, by the sound of things. At that moment, a vague sense of dread encompassed him because he knew Balin, Dwalin and Dís were bound to try and orchestrate something. In recent months, his sister and friends had taken it upon themselves to sort out what they deemed his ‘frankly alarming relationship with his job.’ Sam had refused to get involved, but the one time he appealed to them for help, they had just laughed and returned to cooking the dinner.

Thorin was amused to note that they had forgone the usual metallic female voice and instead the stations were being announced by an incredibly bored-sounding and sarcastic man, who had a cutting commentary scripted for each stop he announced.

"We are now approaching Crosby and Blundellsands, alight here if you are filled with the bizarre inclination to see hundreds of naked iron men."

Thorin snorted, thinking of the Anthony Gormley piece that decorated the beach here which was indeed one hundred individual nude sculptures of the artist (there was always at least one inevitably bedecked in a high-visibility jacket). He pulled himself into a standing position, even though it was the next stop, Waterloo, on the other side of the town, where he would in fact get off as it was closer to Dori’s. Once the train had pulled away from the station, it was barely a minute before they reached the next and soon he was at the seafront, regarding the long row of pastel Victorian houses that glowed in the afternoon sunlight.

A small sign outside one denoted the B&B, Sergeant Pepper's - Thorin had laughed the first time he learned just how shamelessly Dori was going to appeal to Beatles tourism (and had received a dead arm for his efforts) - and he ambled up the path through the quaint garden to knock upon the red front door.

A harried looking Dori answered, his usually immaculate greying hair in disarray.

“Thorin,” he breathed out, hurriedly waving the man into the entryway. “What brings you here?”

Thorin frowned at his friend for a moment, the daylight streaming through the stained glass fanlight behind him casting the fine lines of older man’s features into a harsh relief.

“Looking for a Bilbo Baggins - I believe he is staying here?”

Dori regarded him curiously, but unexpectedly did not question him and instead answered, “He went out to coffee with Balin - Bombur’s place in the Village. Did you know he’s the new English teacher they got for the school?”

Thorin felt his eyebrows creep upwards - Balin had been singing the praises of the new teacher he had found all week and he could almost have laughed at the coincidence. That was probably why the name had seemed familiar. He was surprised however, that the man had arrived already because Thorin could have sworn he was going to be starting with the new school year, in December.

Thanking Dori along with a promise to visit for dinner soon, he made his way back along the path. Glaring down at the pavement, he tried to recall the quickest way to the Village - Crosby’s shopping district - it was at least a half an hour walk away, and not close to either station.

After an hour (in which he most definitely did not manage to get lost), he eventually made it to Bombur’s quaint cafe and he entered, instantly drawing a grin from the rotund redhead behind the counter.

“Thorin, how can I help you?” he said, looking pleasantly surprised to see the taller man.

“Looking for Balin, though I can see he’s not here.” A quick glance over the room - almost full with various patrons for their lunch - had confirmed this.

“Sorry, you’ve not long missed him though,” Bombur shrugged.

Thorin sighed, “I’ll have a caramel latte to go then.”

His sister had always mocked his choice in coffee - she had come back from a French Exchange at seventeen and had ever since then had looked down upon anyone who did not take it the ‘proper’ way, that is to say, black and ridiculously strong.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Bombur began, looking at Thorin over his shoulder as he prepared his drink, “What are you looking for him for?”

“It’s a long story,” Thorin said evasively, “I’m actually looking for the man he was with.”

Bombur grinned again, “Oh have you met Bilbo already? He’s just lovely, isn’t he? An avid baker too.”

Of course Bombur would use the man’s cooking ability as a measure of his personality.

He made a vague noise in response to Bombur’s comment, fishing the change to pay for his coffee out of the pocket of his jeans.   
“He knows Bofur already, can’t quite remember how, but I think that’s where they went,” Bombur added as he slid Thorin’s drink across the counter. Bofur - Bombur’s brother - ran a pub along with their cousin in the city centre. Thorin questioned just how many of his friends this Bilbo already knew, because this was seriously getting quite ridiculous now.

“The Green Dragon?”

“Aye.”

With a thank you to Bombur, Thorin exited the cafe, heading on the thankfully easier route to Crosby station and sipping on his coffee as he went.

Once he was on the main road, he pulled out his phone to text Balin.

_‘Are you at the Green Dragon?’_

Moments later he received a reply, _‘Are you in town? If so come join - there’s someone I’d like you to meet ;)’_.

Thorin was fairly certain that at forty-four, Balin was far too old to be using the winky face, or any such thing in his messages and with a shake of his head, he responded with a simple _‘On my way’_ , before sliding his phone back into his coat pocket. Now, he was quite certain his earlier train of thought was quite correct and he could not help but feel a bit sorry for Bilbo - barely had he arrived in the city and his meddling friends were up to their usual tricks.

The journey by train into the city centre was about twenty minutes and he made it to Mathew Street only taking the wrong way once Moorfields station - a quite impressive feat considering the route used mainly backstreets and this area of the centre was one he was less familiar with.

The Green Dragon was a large Irish pub, complete with plenty of green decorations, the vague stench of Guinness and soft rock emanating from the speakers, but otherwise rather more authentic than most since Bofur and Bifur were in fact Irish. For a Saturday afternoon, it was even busier than usual, the music drowned out by the hum of many conversations.

Bofur nodded at him from behind the bar, “Tennent’s?”

“Of course.”

“Balin’s through to the back,” the Irishman informed him as he pulled the pint. He handed the beer to Thorin, then gave an honest to goodness wink before he moved on to the next customer. At least this time he was spared the teasing rant about his predictability and incredible Scottishness which most times he fended off with a muttered, ‘At least it’s not vodka and Irn-Bru,’ (which just so happened to be his sister’s drink of choice) and Bofur would just snigger in response.

Weaving in and out of the tables, he made his way to where he could see Balin, his light-haired companion - hopefully the seemingly infamous Bilbo - facing away from Thorin. Balin smiled and waved as he caught sight of him, prompting his friend to turn towards Thorin and...oh.

Oh goodness.

Thorin could feel his heart leap into his throat as the stranger gave him an small, yet somehow dazzling smile.

His stomach swooped like he was some swooning bloody teenager and not a grown adult.

But seriously, it was unjust that anyone should be _that_ attractive.

“Thorin,” Balin called, then as he sat down, added with a smirk, “I’d like you to meet Bilbo Baggins.”

Finally. It actually was him.

“Bilbo, this is an old friend of mine, Thorin Durin.”

Bilbo smiled wider then, his hazel eyes meeting Thorin’s own as they shook hands.

“It’s a pleasure.”

God, even his voice was nice - smooth and clear with clipped vowels so different from Thorin’s own Scottish brogue.

He was doomed.

“I’ve been looking for you all day,” he blurted, then coloured at the sheer abruptness of it.

He could practically feel Balin radiating amusement beside him.

Bilbo’s brow wrinkled, perplexed and - shite, even that was cute.

“Me?”

Reaching into his coat pocket, Thorin pulled out the copy of _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_.

“I found this yesterday in my taxi,” he told him, placing it in the other man’s hands.

If Thorin thought Bilbo’s smile was radiant before, it was nothing compared to the beaming look of utter delight that spread on his features then.

“I thought I’d lost this!” he exclaimed, “I can’t believe you found this! How lucky it is!”

“Such a small world,” Balin chuckled.

Thorin explained it then, his wild goose chase in pursuit of Bilbo and the others listened attentively, Bilbo clutching the book tightly to his chest the entire time.

“This book was my mum’s,” Bilbo said quietly, after he had finished, “I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”

“How about dinner?”

The words were off his tongue before he could stop them. His thoughts crashed to a halt and his cheeks burned as he stared, horrified at his bluntness, at a wide-eyed Bilbo.

“I mean- that is- you don’t-” he stuttered.

Someone just smite him now.

“I’d love to.”

Seriously, just send a magical bolt of lightning-

Wait, what?

“I’d love to go to dinner with you Thorin. How does later today sound?”

He was just about able to manage a strangled, “Fine.”

Bilbo smiled all the wider, then excused himself to go get another drink.

Oh he was most definitely doomed.

With a pointed cough, Balin drew Thorin's attention (he had most definitely not been watching Bilbo walk away) and then the man had the gall to waggle his eyebrows at him, the smug bastard.

Thorin glared at him, unamused.

“What?”

Balin smirked back, “That was painful to watch laddie.”

He harrumphed defensively, then drained about a third of his beer in one go.

“But, otherwise, I suppose, you’d have been dancing around him for months.”

“I would not,” he grumbled in a half-hearted defense. Balin just gave him a flat look.

There was a small chance he was neither the smoothest, nor speediest person in such matters.

And Bilbo had likely just agreed out of gratitude anyway.

As if reading his mind, Balin patted his forearm and said, “Bilbo wouldn’t agree unless he wanted to go. Trust me.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, Balin’s right,” came Bilbo’s voice from behind him. “It’s not everyday a cute Scot asks you to dinner,” he added with a grin as he resumed his seat.

“I’m not cute,” he protested. He was far too manly and dashing for such words. In the back of his mind a bout of incredulous laughter broke out that sounded uncomfortably like Dís.

“Oh no,” Bilbo argued, his voice practically purring, “That blush is most definitely cute.”

Balin made an awkward cough, prompting Bilbo’s own cheeks to redden (which was, of course, completely adorable), and then he sidled away, mumbling something about ‘third-wheels’.

“Sadly, he probably believes that to be subtle,” Thorin commented in amusement.

Bilbo gave a laugh at that, the sound sending pleasant jolts through Thorin’s stomach.

Oh yes, he was most certainly doomed.

And quite frankly, he found he rather liked the notion.

 


End file.
